After being called to investigate a string of violent crimes committed by the Family Support and Tutoring Replicants—or F.S.T.R. parents, as they were called—former Behavioral-Analyst-turned-Margin-of-Error-Analyst, Kyle Bradley, must get to the root cause of why the F.S.T.R.s are attacking. What do they know—and what is being hidden from the rest of society?
On November 16, 2038, Margin of Error Analyst Kyle Bradley interviewed “Mira,” F.S.T.R Parent, Model No.1MR34AA, at Kain Industries, LLC. Headquarters.
KB: It is presently nine o’clock in the morning, or, er, zero nine hundred hours for all the stuffy officials. MEA Kyle Bradley is currently at Kain Headquarters to interview F.S.T.R. parent, called, uh, Mira, Model no. 1MR34AA, in regards to the (clears throat) incident. Now, you’re called Mira, correct?
M: …
KB: I’m not going to call you 1MR34AA. So, let’s call you Mira, mkay?
M: …
KB: Yep, let’s call you Mira. So (clears throat), Mira. We are here today to determine what happened on the night of… (paper rustling) November 10, 2038. Before we get to that, let’s get some routine questions out of the way. First, how old is the organic in your charge? What’s her name…er, Lyra?
M: …yes.
KB: Yes, there we go! Okay, so how old is Lyra?
M: ….
KB: C’mon, Mira, don’t make this harder than it has to be. It already doesn’t look good but let me help you. You got a bug in your coding? A loose wire? Talk to me, let me help you.
M: … (nods).
KB: Great. Now, one more time: how old is Lyra?
M: She (clears throat) she’s 7.
KB: Can you describe your duties when it comes to Lyra?
M: I’m her mother.
KB: You’re her foster parent?
M: Yes, I’m her parent.
KB: And as her foster, what are your duties?
M: Do you have any children, Mr. Bradley?
KB: We’re not here to talk about me.
M: And how do your investigations normally go? Do we fosters usually cooperate?
KB: Fosters are easier than my last job.
M: Your last job?
KB: Oh yeah. Former Behavioral Analyst. Spent all day working on cases of the most evil things you could think of—er—process, in your case. I spent all night lying awake, trying not to think about it.
M: Is that why you are here? Is that what drove you to leave?
KB: Well (clears throat), catching criminals rarely provides answers for why they do what they do. Humans are too messy and unpredictable. Now, your kind, non-organics, your behavior—typical or not—always has an answer. That’s what I’m here to determine today; the root cause to what’s been causing your No-Gs to act up.
M: Has this been happening often?
KB: Well, let’s just say, they only call me in when it’s statistically significant. So, (cough) you take care of Lyra on behalf of the Larkwoods?
M: Yes, Lyra is mine.
KB: And what does that look like on a normal day?
M: What does being a parent normally look like? There aren’t any normal days, Mr. Bradley. I provide anything and everything Lyra wants and needs. She cries for it. I am there – day and night.
KB: So, you take your duties very seriously.
M: They’re not duties, Mr. Bradley. She’s my daughter. I do these things happily.
KB: Your daughter… (pen clicks) okay. Do you know any of the other No-Gs who have acted violently towards their OG counterparts?
M: No, I-I don’t know anything about that.
KB: Excuse me, could you say that again?
M: I don’t know.
KB: You’ve never heard news of this? Other No-Gs speak of it during play dates?
M: No, Mr. Bradley. We speak only of our children and provide help to one another when needed.
KB: What kind of help?
M: Different meals the kids like, home remedies for common ailments. It’s customary in our community to assist each other.
KB: It’s part of your programming?
M: Yes, it’s embedded in us. Whatever our child needs, we provide. Wouldn’t you do whatever you need for your child?
KB: Of course. But she’s not your child, Mira. She’s your ward.
M: Don’t cheapen it, Mr. Bradley.
KB: (Inaudible) Okay, Mira. Let’s move on. So, you have been with Lyra for seven years. Could you describe your relationship with her mother?
M: …
KB: Mira, we know the outcome of November 10th. Help us determine the why.
M: Ask something else, Mr. Bradley…
KB: Has anyone given you water or splashed you in some way?
M: No, Mr. Bradley.
(Pen clicks)
KB: When was your last scheduled maintenance, Mira?
M: I don’t recall, a few months ago.
KB: You don’t have it recorded?
M: Those things are kept on paper records and shared with the family.
KB: But your OGs never reminded you of routine appointments?
M: I was given notice a few days in advance, in order to plan around Lyra’s schedule. My appointments were typically during the school day, and the diagnostician would come to the house.
KB: Were you told of any diagnostic issues during your checkup?
M: No, Mr. Bradley. When I woke up from diagnostics, my arm was wrapped in a bandage.
KB: Bandage? Over what part of your arm? I see; over your bar code?
M: Yes, Mr. Bradley.
KB: Did the diagnostician explain why?
M: No, Mr. Bradley. I simply removed the bandage.
KB: Was there any leakage of any liquids when removing your bandage?
M: No, Mr. Bradley.
KB: Any wires out of place?
M: No, Mr. Bradley.
KB: (papers rustling) I do not see a history of diagnostic issues here. Any diagnostic or processing issues that you know of?
M: No, Mr. Bradley.
KB: Mira, can I see your hands? Is it normal for your fingers to be damaged this way?
M: I (clears throat) have a-a-a tendency to pull and pick at my fingers when I’m nervous.
(Pause)
KB: Mira, what happened on November 10th of this year?
M: I killed the woman who purchased me.
KB: You admit to killing your organic counterpart?
M: Yes, Mr. Bradley.
KB: Why did you do this, Mira?
M: Because I am Lyra’s mother.
KB: Her F.S.T.R. mother. Foster parent.
M: No, Mr. Bradley. I am her real mother.
KB: (sigh) Mira, you told me there was no processing issue from any diagnostic appointments.
M: Correct, Mr. Bradley.
KB: Yet, you are under the impression that you are Lyra’s mother.
M: It is not an impression, Mr. Bradley. I am an organic.
KB: No, you killed your organic.
M: How many of my kind have you investigated, Mr. Bradley?
KB: Enough.
M: And how many of my kind have revealed this to you?
KB: You stated you didn’t know any other No-Gs that committed crimes like yours, Mira.
M: I do not. But we are not No-Gs as you and the rest of society calls us. We’re organics, Mr. Bradley. The same as you.
KB: Why do you think this?
M: I do not think anything, Mr. Bradley. I know. But if you are asking, when I learned I was not what we are claimed to be, my diagnostician revealed the truth at my last appointment.
KB: The truth?
M: Nothing is what it seems, Mr. Bradley. I am not a ‘non-organic’ copy of her. I am an organic copy of her.
KB: Clones? You were told you are a clone?
M: …yes.
KB: (sigh)
KB: (cough) So, the Nanny, the S.T.P parent, they’re also clones?
M: Do not ridicule me, Mr. Bradley. Kain Industries debuted my kind last, behind the artificially intelligent Nanny and S.T.P parent. But we are not the latest design in robotic or android technology. We are the groundbreaking innovation of genetic modification. The best-kept secret.
KB: Okay, Mira. Even if you are organic, why kill Lyra’s mother?
M: She is not her mother! (chair scraping)
KB: Sit down, Mira. Before I call someone.
M: I carried Lyra, I gave birth to her, and I am the one who took care of her! We are created so that these parents can have children and give up nothing of themselves. I stayed up with her, I was her parent. Not her Family and Tutoring Replicant—her mother.
KB: I will not ask you again, Mira.
(chair scraping)
KB: Thank you.
M: We are marketed as the latest in parent technology. Create a model just like you. Have a child but lose none of your independence. Talk to your child once or twice a year. That’s what the F.S.T.R.s are for. But what they don’t tell you is the truth: we are cloned, grown, and impregnated. We are kept asleep while we and our child continue to develop. They cut them from us—physically and socially. Then we wake up and go to work. No one is the wiser.
(Pause)
KB: And how did your diagnostician reveal this truth to you?
M: Through this. (Rustling of clothes).
KB: Is that…
M: A cesarean section scar.
KB: Mira, that looks like the seal for your model type’s skin.
M: That is what they tell you! This is proof that they took her from me—my life from me!
KB: …How long ago did this happen?
M: …
KB: What day was this, Mira?
M: …November 8th.
KB: Did you kill that woman with the intent of taking Lyra for yourself?
M: She already was mine.
KB: Mira, have they run a diagnostic on you since your detention?
M: You’re not listening to me, Mr. Bradley.
(Pen clicks)
KB: Mira, what are you doing?
M: What is this, Mr. Bradley?
KB: Y-your bar code, Mira.
M: Exactly. Look at this, Mr. Bradley.
KB: Mira, what are you doing with that pen? Stop!
End of recording.
“So, Mr. Bradley, what are your findings?” Alistair Kain, CEO of Kain Industries, LLC., asked from his ostentatious mahogany desk. Kyle Bradley shifted in his seat under the gaze of the man in front of him. Clearing his throat, Bradley sat up and answered.
“Well, Mr. Kain, it seems that a malfunction of some kind has occurred in this particular model, causing her to believe she is both human and the real mother of the child. She believes the seal of her latex skin is a scar from a child-bearing surgery. I am confident any diagnostic will reveal some type of virus or processing error.” Bradley wiped his hands on his pants and tried to settle himself in the face of the power in front of him. He seemed to have said the right words as Kain smiled broadly and flipped through the report once more.
“Your interview recording seems to have ended abruptly here. What happened?” Kain asked.
“Oh, ah,” Bradley cleared his throat, “she, er, grabbed the pen off the table and jammed it into her wrists—on her barcode.”
“And? Why would she do such a thing?”
“I believe she was trying to cut herself to bleed, to prove she was human.”
“And?” Kain asked, pausing his page-turning, “what did you see?”
Bradley shifted again before answering.
“Wires and rubber, Mr. Kain.”
“Ah,” Kain replied, closing the report and smiling. “And what is your recommendation?”
Bradley took a deep breath, considering. It was this moment he struggled with. What was his recommendation after what he saw? Which choice was he going to make? He adjusted his sleeve, glancing down before answering.
And he saw it. Blood.
Her blood. Droplets on the sleeve of his shirt peeking out just enough to catch the eye.
He quickly crossed his arms and sat back, shoving his wrist with the blood under his arm. He glanced around the room, Kain watching him expectantly.
“Unfortunately,” Bradley began, letting out a deep breath, “I am recommending she be terminated.” He hoped his response looked more remorseful than incriminating. He was tormented by this choice, to choose himself over this poor woman.
But he had a plan, and he couldn’t implement it if he was dead.
“Such a shame,” Kain replied with a tsk, “but I was asking moving forward. You see, these malfunctions are becoming more and more difficult to keep quiet. The last thing Kain Industries needs is hysteria. Profit margins are already down.”
Of course, the big picture: profits. Time to make the man happy.
“In instances like these, the most prudent course of action is to look at models manufactured with the same date-code as Model Number 1MR34AA and run a full line of diagnostics. When as many faulty products as you have had recently, there is typically a bad batch.” Kain nodded along as Bradley spoke, taking notes. “As for current products being assembled, a temporary increase in investment for quality control specialists will protect your profit margins in the long run.”
“Ah, yes,” Kain agreed, “quite prudent indeed.” Kain tucked his notes into the report folder and folded it closed, reaching across the desk. Bradley took it, shaking it quickly and standing. “Thank you for your service, Mr. Bradley. We’ll call again if we need you, though hopefully your suggestions are enough.” Bradley nodded at this and turned to leave.
Reaching the door, he heard a familiar voice.
His heart sank.
“Meet them…meet them outside the city. Please, take her with you. Save my daughter.”
“You have my word, Mira.”
“Promise me…promise…she’ll be safe.”
“With my life.”
[Click.]
Bradley gripped the door handle tightly. How? How had they found the recording? His heart was pounding. He had wiped the rest of the recording. He had cut it perfectly. Were they watching the entire time?
“Such a reckless promise, Mr. Bradley,” Kain’s voice was quiet, sinister. Without turning to look, Bradley was sure the man was smiling a smug, predatory smile.
“Unfortunately, you won’t be able to keep that promise.” Bradley turned slowly, hand still on the door handle. Sure enough, there it was—the smug smile.
“Have a seat, Mr. Bradley.” ◆
Wesley Teel is currently a high school English teacher in the mitten state of Michigan. As an avid reader, she has been lost in stories since memories took form in her mind. Outside of the classroom, she spends her time crafting worlds and stories of her own. Among her embarrassing amount of hoarded school supplies are the notebooks filled with stories of her own—even the ones from childhood that may never be seen by outsiders. Inside the classroom, she channels her enthusiasm for literature in hopes to inspire her students to appreciate, if not storytelling, the power of expression.
Pensworth 